


Short of Breath

by ladymac111



Series: Miss Holmes [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Gen, M/M, Parentlock, Sherlock Whump, Story: The Adventure of the Devil's Foot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-27 18:07:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6294469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymac111/pseuds/ladymac111
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A holiday in Cornwall was, of course, never going to just be a holiday in Cornwall since Sherlock Holmes was involved, even if he was supposed to be convalescing.  The terrifying murder shouldn't even have been a surprise to John and Alexa.</p><p>A reworking of "The Adventure of the Devil's Foot" in the Miss Holmes universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Manders.ink for the beta! (I don't know if you have an AO3 username...)

It was half past one in the afternoon and Alexa was in French class when the headmistress's secretary came in, looking slightly worried, and said they needed to see her in the office. The adrenaline kicked in immediately, and her hands shook as she stuffed her things into her bag and followed Mrs Robertson into the hall.

She couldn't possibly deny – not to herself, not to anyone – that she was terrified out of her mind. Her fathers lived a life that was filled with adventure -- and on more than one occasion, misadventure. Although those times had been rare in the three years she'd been with them, she knew the stories from before, and she also knew that Sherlock closely guarded the tale of what had happened in the time he'd been away. He had shared it with no one save his brother, who she guessed would have known anyway. John had tried to ask him about it a few times, quietly and hesitantly, but Sherlock had evaded until he gave up. She had seen the scars he still bore, the way they criss-crossed the otherwise smooth skin of his back, the way he sometimes flinched at certain sudden sounds.  She feared to speculate upon the horrors he had experienced that he wasn't willing even to tell to John, with whom he shared literally everything else in his life.

They were both obsessed with excitement and danger, which meant that as objects of worry, they were unbeatable. The misadventures she'd been witness to had so far been minor, nothing worse than scrapes patched up in the bathroom and one occasion of a heroic black eye and a minor concussion; nothing requiring as much as a visit to A&E. But when they went out at night, and especially when they were still gone in the morning, her throat tightened against the fear of what could befall them.

They had left in a rush around nine the previous night, and Sherlock was positively buzzing with the knowledge that he was about to crack the whole thing wide open. He'd been on the case for two weeks, and the slow progress infuriated him while the February sludge in the streets and a head cold that was moving down into his lungs hindered his efforts at legwork. But then he'd had the call from Lestrade, and despite not having slept or properly eaten in three days, he was off like a shot, John shouting a hurried apology to her as he trailed behind a little slower. They were still out when she left for school in the morning.

It wasn't that she minded being left, not really. Of course she wished they wouldn't, but she knew that was how it was with them, had been from the very start. What she minded was the not knowing. The silence. When they were hot on the trail like this, they rarely checked in with her, and she could tell that Sherlock's hunger for the solution to this one meant she wouldn't hear from him – and probably wouldn't hear from John either – until someone was in custody.

_ Someone _ might be the two of them. Had been, once, and she'd heard stories about other times as well. At this point, with this case, the only other option for seeing them before it was over was if one of them got hurt.

And there was the fear, the cold clawing tightness that gripped her chest as two pairs of footfalls echoed down the corridor. If her fathers were in police custody they wouldn't call her, they'd call Mycroft and he'd deal with it, and she'd find out after school. They'd only call her if it was something Mycroft couldn't just make better. Something serious.

“Papa?” Her heart was in her throat as she stepped into the administrative office, and John's head snapped around. She ran to him, and he stood just in time and caught her in an embrace, breathing shakily into her hair while she hid her face against his neck.

They clutched at each other for a long minute before he pulled back a little. “Alexa ...”

“What's happened?” she gasped, wiping the tears off her cheeks. “What happened to Dad?”

“He's in hospital, at Saint Mary's,” John said, and while his voice wasn't shaking, he looked like hell. His clothes were dirty and rumpled with a tear in one knee of his jeans, and his hair stood on end from hours of running his hands through it. “He had a scuffle with our man early this morning. I finally got to him an hour later, and....” John paused, pressing his lips together. “He was in rough shape. Wet, freezing, lying in an alley with a broken leg and a head wound.”

“Oh my god,” she breathed.

John nodded. “Plus, you know, he's been ill. I'd have overlooked where he was but I heard him coughing.” He shook his head. “I should have  _ known _ , it's been getting worse and I was going to listen to his lungs. I thought he sounded wet.”

She had a moment of awful clarity. “He's got pneumonia.”

“On top of a fractured tibia and a scalp laceration, yeah. I'm so sorry I didn't come to get you sooner, it was a really bad night. I couldn't leave until he was stable, and they did multiple x-rays so it took quite a while.”

“But he is stable now?” She knew she sounded desperate, and she squeezed John's arms a little tighter.

“Yes, he's stable now.” John seemed to relax a tiny bit. “They got him on oxygen and stitched up his head right away, then took the pictures and set the leg.” He grimaced. “God, I've never heard him like that. It was a pretty bad break, the kind they'd normally do surgery for, but they couldn't because of his lungs, so they just did their best the old way.”

“Oh, god.”

“Yeah, and you know he's barely slept all week, so that doesn't help. Just … not a good place for him to be. But his bone is set now, and he's resting and he's waiting to see you.”

She nodded and gulped down a breath, trying not to cry. “Okay. Can we go now?”

“Yeah, we'll head right over.”

She hesitated, touched the collar of his shirt. “Do you want fresh clothes at all?”

He looked down at himself, as though surprised that his own body was there. “Oh.”

“It's on the way. You look pretty bad. We can stop quick and get you something that's clean.”

“Is it really that bad?”

She grimaced. “I think maybe everyone's too English to say but there's blood on your sleeve and you're covered in grime.”

John sighed. “Are you saying I need a shower?”

“Only if you can do it in under five minutes, because if I have to wait much longer to see Dad I'm going to actually start crying.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” He pulled her into another quick hug before he nodded at the secretary and ushered her out the door. “There was one good thing that came out of last night, though.”

“Good, there'd better be.”

He smiled a little. “When I did finally find your dad, he had the guy's wallet. Lifted it right off him, and he didn't even notice.”

She let out a laugh of relief. “Oh my god, that's  _ so  _ him. I bet he was completely pleased with himself.”

John grinned. “Like the cat that got the cream. I come running over, he's lying in a puddle hacking up a lung and bleeding down his face and you know what he says to me? He brandishes that damn wallet and says  _ 'worth it. _ '”

 

Their stop at home was as fast as they could make it, and while John washed his face and put on clean clothes Alexa got together a bag of toiletries and some pyjamas for Sherlock, since it looked like his stay would extend overnight at least. The cab was still there when they got back downstairs, and took them the rest of the way to the hospital.

Alexa followed John to Sherlock's ward, but he hesitated when they arrived. “Shift change,” he murmured to her.

A nurse greeted them then, and in a few moments had led them to Sherlock. “He's sleeping now,” she said. “Has been for about half an hour, I think, so it's best if he can keep that going.” She pulled the curtain aside. “Let me get you another chair.”

John moved to his husband's side right away, but Alexa stayed frozen for a moment. Sherlock certainly looked like he'd been through a lot – his right leg was in a splint below the knee and propped up a bit with pillows, and the rest of his body was bundled in thick blankets, with just his head and his right hand with the pulse oximeter sticking out. She moved closer and saw his hair, wild and obviously dirty, and carefully pushed back from a stark white bandage that she realized must be covering the stitches in his scalp and forehead. He had an oxygen line looped over his ears and clipped into his nose, and he was wheezing softly as he slept. There was an IV bag on a stand beside the bed, and the line disappeared under the blankets.

“His colour's much better,” John murmured. “He was pale as death before, but he's getting pink again.”

“Good, that's good.”

The nurse returned with a second chair, and John finally looked away from Sherlock. “God, Alexa, sit down. You're shaking.”

She plopped into a chair, and he helped her out of her coat before kneeling in front of her. “Take a deep breath, it's all right. He's going to be fine, and we're all together now.”

She nodded and pressed her fingers to her lips, blinking back tears. “Yeah. Okay.”

John looked lost for a moment, then got up and sat in the other chair. He reached out hesitantly, and stroked her back until she got her breathing under control.

An hour passed, then two. Alexa got out her books and tried to focus on homework while John flipped through things on his phone and went for short walks around the ward to avoid falling asleep.

Finally, a hoarse grumble announced Sherlock's return to wakefulness, and he turned his head towards them. “John?”

He was instantly alert, and sat forward in his chair so he could place a hand on his shoulder. “I'm here.”

Sherlock let out a sigh of relief. “And Alexa?”

She stood up and came to his side, heart pounding. “Hi, Daddy.”

He gripped her fingers lightly. “I'm so sorry, darling.”

“It's okay,” she said, catching her breath and squeezing back. “You're okay and we're together so it's all … it's all okay.”

He smiled weakly and started to say something, but instead was overcome with coughing. John helped him sit up a little, and when he finally caught his breath again John got him a tissue to wipe his hands, then tucked him back under the blankets before going to the hand sanitizer across the room and cleaning his own hands. “Bacterial pneumonia,” he explained to Alexa, offering her some of the gel. “His case isn't serious, but it can be contagious, and he's delicate right now, so make sure you keep your hands clean.”

She nodded as she rubbed it between her palms, and looked back at Sherlock, who had slumped into his pillows and let his eyes fall shut. “Is it better if you don't talk?”

He shrugged half-heartedly. “Probably. I feel like shit no matter what, though.”

“We brought you some pyjamas,” John said. “Do you want to put those on now, or rest some more first?”

He shifted a bit, and winced when his leg moved. “Not sure I can actually do it, but I'd love to be wearing pants under the hospital gown, if I can.”

John turned to look at Alexa. “Um, if you ...”

“Oh, no, it's fine,” she said in a rush. “I'll go, like, find some tea or something. Are you allowed to have tea, Dad?”

“I would  _ murder _ a cup of tea,” he groaned, voice still raspy. “Don't even ask my nurse, just get me some.”

“Some for you too, Papa?”

“Thanks,” he said gratefully. “It'll probably take us five minutes to get your dad dressed, so I'd try to take a little longer than that.”

“Right, okay. See you in ten.”

 

Sherlock was back under the blankets by the time she returned, and although he was paler from the exertion he did seem eager for the tea. Mealtime came shortly thereafter, and John successfully put his foot down on being made to go anywhere that wasn't at Sherlock's side, so they stayed while he picked at his supper. Alexa's stomach growled when he gave up and pushed it away, and he turned his attention to her with more clarity than she'd seen all afternoon. “You two ought to go have dinner,” he said. “Alexa's hungry; she hasn't eaten since lunch.”

“I'm fine,” she lied, and Sherlock gave her his most sceptical look.

“You've got about twenty minutes before you get grouchy,” he continued. “And your Papa hasn't eaten more than a packet of crisps since yesterday evening, plus he's running on no sleep, so he's got about thirty-five before he gets really unpleasant.”

John frowned. “I want to chat with your doctor before we go.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes tiredly. “Go find her then. I think technically you're my GP so you can play that card if you need to, but I won't have our daughter miss her supper just because I have to be on oxygen overnight.”

John huffed a little but left without arguing. After he had gone, Alexa pulled a chair right up to the side of the bed and laid her head on Sherlock's hip. “I was so worried, Dad.”

“I know.” He brushed a stray lock of hair off her forehead. “I'm sorry. For everything. That you have to see me like this.”

She shook her head. “That's really okay. I know you think it makes me think of Mum, but it doesn't, not really. I wasn't there a whole lot when she was actually in hospital, and hospice is a completely different sort of thing.”

His expression softened. “I didn't know she was in hospice.”

She nodded, swallowing around the lump in her throat. “She wrote to you the day she moved there.”

He set his hand on her cheek. “We don't have to keep talking about it.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, and a couple of tears slid down her face onto the hospital sheets. “I'm just so relieved you're all right.”

He gave a small chuckle that turned into a weak cough. “All right being a relative term, I hope.”

She smiled a little. “You'll get better.”

John came back with Dr Chang then, and Alexa sat up reluctantly.

“We'll re-evaluate him in the morning,” the doctor was saying as she cleaned her hands mechanically, “and if his blood pressure is stable and we've got his O2 at 93 without the oxygen, I'll probably authorize his release. He'll need bed rest at home, of course, we don't want him to have to come back.”

“Going to cast the break tomorrow too?” John asked.

“Yes, the swelling should have gone down by then enough to do a plaster splint, and he'll come back in a week for a proper cast. That fracture may actually be a good thing, keep him from running around until his lungs recover.”

John nodded his agreement. “I'll take what I can get when it comes to looking after him. Do you have any concerns about his fever? I know it was higher than usual for pneumonia when he was admitted.”

She turned to Sherlock. “When's the last time someone took your temp? I bet it was a while ago.”

He shrugged. “Probably.”

She grabbed his chart and studied it for a moment, then stepped over to the cabinets and got out a thermometer. She felt his forehead with her knuckles briefly before inserting the probe in his ear. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

The device beeped. “Thirty-eight seven, down a bit from before. You know it doesn't help any if you lie to me about how you feel.”

He pouted. “I can try.”

“Sweats, chills?”

“Both, a little.”

“That temperature's pretty good,” John said. “The last one was thirty-nine, right?”

Dr Chang nodded. “I'm happy with it now, especially since Mr Holmes here got himself upper  _ and _ lower respiratory infections, on top of a broken bone. You've really been through hell today, haven't you?”

“I've had worse,” he said seriously, and the mood in the room grew chilly.

The doctor cleared her throat a bit nervously. “Well, in any case, visiting hours are just about over, Dr Watson, and Sherlock, your night nursing team will be around to introduce themselves in a little bit.”

“Can't wait.”

“No call for sarcasm,” John scolded.

“I've got to have  _ some _ fun,” Sherlock whined.

“We do expect you to sleep tonight,” Dr Chang interrupted, "you'll need to rest if you're going home tomorrow. How's your pain level?”

He sighed and gave in. “Moderate but bearable. The leg aches, and I'm sore all over, and coughing hurts a little.”

“Feeling short of breath?”

“Only after I've been coughing or trying to move.”

“That's all right.” She scribbled a note on his chart. “I'll put in an order for a little more painkiller for you.” She returned the chart to its spot and patted his uninjured foot. “I'll see you tomorrow morning, and then your family can come take you home. Have a good night.”

She left with a stern look to John, who sighed and started packing up his things. The nurse came in ten minutes later to kick them out, and Sherlock reached toward Alexa. She stepped over and took his hand, which gripped hers firmly. “I love you, sweetheart.”

She tried not to tear up. “I love you too, Dad. Feel better tomorrow so we can take you home, okay?”

He smiled. “Okay.”

John was next, and pressed a lingering kiss to Sherlock's forehead. “I love you,” he murmured, almost too soft to hear. “So much.”

"God, I love you." Sherlock clutched his arm and held him closely for a moment, and his eyes were wet when he finally let go. “Take care of my ring,” he said, touching where it had already spent most of the day, temporarily placed on John's right middle finger. “I feel naked without it.”

“You'll be wearing it again tomorrow.” He placed a soft kiss on Sherlock's lips, then straightened up and took a breath. “I guess this is it. Good night.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together and sighed. “Good night.”

John and Alexa made their way out of the hospital, and decided to walk home instead of taking a cab, even though the wind was picking up. They stopped in the Tesco on the way to grab dinner, since by then, as Sherlock had predicted, they were both feeling the effects of hunger. They bickered for a minute over what to get before settling on sandwiches, crisps, and a packet of Jaffa cakes, then took it home and ate in front of the television without really paying it any attention.

John broke the spell while Alexa was collecting their rubbish. “Are you going to school tomorrow?”

She seemed surprised by his question. “Oh, right.”

“Because I can call you out if you want. Help me bring him home.”

She dropped the rubbish in the bin, then crossed her arms and leaned against the counter. “I don't know. I've got a test in chemistry on Monday and we're doing our final review tomorrow.”

“I'm sure Dad would be happy to help you revise. It'd do him good to keep his mind off his own problems, too.”

She favoured him with a small smile. “Are you asking me to stay home?”

“I could use your help with him.”

“He will be a handful, won't he.”

“He'll be grouchy and helpless and grouchy about being helpless. Plus I'm going to need help just getting him up here. It'll be a while before he's good enough on crutches to navigate stairs, and he's too tall for me to carry.”

She gave him a decisive nod. “I'll stay home and help.”


	2. Chapter 2

John and Alexa were both up early the next day -- Alexa having woken before her alarm due to nerves, John having not slept at all -- and by noon they were wheeling Sherlock out of the hospital with a cast that went over his knee and two prescription bottles rattling in his bag. Getting him into the cab was difficult, getting him out more so, and the trip up the stairs took ten minutes and involved enough shouting that Mrs Hudson came out to scold them, before she went to make tea for them.

By the time she brought it up with fresh scones, Sherlock had finished his little pained and exhausted crying jag and been bundled into the couch with his injured leg propped up and a fresh dose of painkillers making its way through his veins. He fell asleep after tea, and in the early evening woke up long enough for John and Alexa to help him to bed.

He spent the rest of the weekend alternating between sleeping in bed and dozing on the couch, and in between Alexa convinced him to help revise chemistry for a couple hours, though his patience was thin enough that she finally decided it was better without his help.

On Monday morning he made his first attempts to hobble around under his own power, and the combination of pain, exhaustion, and aggravation made an even worse combination than John had feared, and the mood swings arrived in full force.

The rest of the week was filled with one outburst after another: snapping at Alexa for leaving her violin on the couch, her retaliation with twelve-tone music, shouting at Mrs Hudson for not having the right biscuits, epic sulking.  That was at least quiet, but should have been a warning to John that something even worse was coming: Sherlock finished the week by uninstalling the operating system on John’s laptop and replacing it with a Linux distribution.

They were fighting over this when Alexa got home from school, so she hid out with Mrs Hudson until the shouting had ended and a door had been slammed for good measure, though she was never sure exactly who had done it.

Sherlock's mood was a bit better on the weekend, and John and Alexa worked hard to keep his mind engaged. On Sunday he even apologized a little, and helped John restore his backed-up files, though the computer was never quite the same.

Monday brought the return trip to the hospital, and with it a declaration from Dr Chang that she was happy with the improvement in his lung function brought around by the antibiotics, and the swelling in his leg had gone down so he came home with a blue monstrosity that covered his leg from thigh to toes and an appointment to return again in six weeks.

The prospect of being immobile for so long brought the foul mood back, and John made an executive decision.

“That is  _ it _ ,” he snapped, effectively shutting up Sherlock’s rude commentary on John’s intellect because his afternoon tea wasn’t exactly right.  “We are going to get you out of here.”

Sherlock blinked up at him from the couch, looking suddenly worried.  “What?”

“You, me, Alexa,” John said, gesturing upstairs, where their daughter had been hiding from the verbal artillery after she got home from school.  “We’re going to go on holiday, in the country somewhere.”

“On  _ holiday? _ ” Sherlock said, incredulous.  “Sorry, haven’t you seen me?  I can barely get myself to the toilet on my own.”

“Stop acting like you’re the only disabled person in the world,” John growled.  “You need some fresh air, and we need to get you out of this house before Mrs Hudson decides she’s had enough of your bad attitude and  _ evicts _ us.”

Sherlock leaned back and crossed his arms defiantly.  “What about Alexa?  She’s got school.”

“If you paid attention you’d know she’s on break next week.  She’s already talked to me and said she’d like to go somewhere.”

That made Sherlock pause.  “You talked about this without me?”

John shrugged.  “You’ve been a total arse for the past week, Sherlock.  Life goes on.”

“You--” he began, defensive, then paused.  “Alexa.”

John turned; she was standing in the door, and crept forward.  “Oh, you … you’re telling him?  Does that mean we’re really going?”

“Yeah,” John said.  “I think you’re right, we all need to get a fresh … perspective.”

She perched on the arm of the couch by Sherlock’s feet.  “Had you thought where we’ll go?”

“I, um.”  John looked from her to Sherlock, and rubbed the back of his neck.  “I hadn’t quite got there yet.”

“Because I had an idea,” she said.  “I’ve been missing the sea, and I thought maybe Cornwall?  I’ve never been and it’s supposed to be lovely.  Peaceful.  We could rent a cottage or something.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.  “Peaceful?  Really?”

She wrinkled her nose at him.  “Get over yourself, Dad, you’ll like it.”

He pressed his lips together and made a sceptical noise in his throat, but didn’t actually say anything against it while Alexa and John got out a laptop and started researching holiday rentals on the Cornish coast.

They managed to survive another week of Sherlock being mostly confined to the couch, and on Friday they left as soon as Alexa got home from school. They packed themselves into a cab and then onto the train with their luggage, Sherlock's crutches, and a borrowed wheelchair. They got into Truro at nine, hired a car, and by the time they made it to the cottage half an hour later Sherlock was tired enough that he had Alexa push him to the cottage in the wheelchair rather than bothering with his crutches.

They all slept late, and the next morning Alexa walked into town in search of breakfast while John helped Sherlock take a shower. After they had eaten, Sherlock settled into his chair and they headed out for a walk along the cliffs.

Sherlock had eventually come around to the idea of the time away, and had determined that he would make a study of the geology and grasses of the region. John approved this plan, since it could be done without cutting into the relaxation aspect of the holiday, and left room for himself and Alexa to enjoy themselves as well. Neither of them were exactly sure what Sherlock planned to study that hadn't already been covered in the professional literature -- and he'd spent a morning convincing Bart's academic administrators to put John on their alumni JSTOR access list -- but they didn't doubt they'd hear about it eventually. He had a notebook in his ever-present backpack and filled several pages.

They had a picnic lunch overlooking the sea, and they headed back when the wind grew chilly in the afternoon. By supper time Sherlock was feeling strong enough that he got dressed in something other than grubby track suit bottoms (John and Alexa had found a pair of trousers at a charity shop that he could get on over the cast, and he cuffed the right leg all the way up above his knee), and he made the five-minute walk to the nearby pub upright and under his own power. The trek back was a bit more arduous, but he managed it in fair spirits and they spent the rest of the evening playing a board game in front of the fire.

Sunday they drove out to Land's End and passed the afternoon browsing the tourist attractions there. Monday was spent wandering near the cottage again, and Tuesday was shaping up to look similar when then there was a knock at the front door of the cottage while they were finishing breakfast. John and Alexa both looked to Sherlock, who peered out the window. “Go answer, it's the vicar and she's brought someone else as well.”

John opened the door and admitted their two callers. The first was the Reverend Corinne Roundhay, whom they had met in town the previous afternoon and who had been a bit star-struck at meeting Sherlock Holmes; she now seemed more than a little worked up over something. The other visitor was a young man in his early twenties with a dark beard, wide, tired eyes, and a nervous, haunted look to him.

“Mr Holmes, Dr Watson,” the Reverend said as she came in. “I'm so sorry to bother you this early, but, well. Something has  _ happened.” _

John ushered them into the sitting area while Alexa helped Sherlock up from the table. “Things often do,” he said, holding tightly to her while they made their way together to the chair next to the wood stove, which was still warm from the fire John had lit that morning to drive off the chill. He sat heavily, then leaned forward with an effort and extended his hand to the other guest. “Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. This is my partner and husband John Watson, and our daughter Alexa. You may speak freely in front of them.”

He shook Sherlock's hand awkwardly. “Mort Tregennis. Er, handyman.”

“Mortimer's a local boy,” Roundhay explained. “He and his brother and sister grew up near here, up in Tredannick Wollas. Mort's been boarding with me for a few months now, helping his brother Owen doing a big reno and taking care of odd jobs around the village.”

“Very good. What brings you to see us this morning?”

The vicar was overcome for a moment, and produced a handkerchief from her sleeve. “There's been a  _ murder _ .”

“The vicar comes after breakfast to tell me about a murder? I'm in an Agatha Christie novel,” Sherlock quipped, though his tone lacked any bite and he sounded quite excited by the prospect of having a case on holiday. John and Alexa shared a look that meant they had feared this would happen, but they weren't prepared to fight it.

The vicar's expression was distraught. “It's quite serious, Mr Holmes.”

“Apologies.” Sherlock schooled his features and gestured to his backpack, which lay on the seat of the wheelchair. “Alexa, notes.” She fetched his notebook and a pen, and when she had settled down to record he continued.  “Please go on, reverend. Tell me what's happened.  Unless Mr Tregennis would rather be the one to tell the tale, since he’s the one who actually made the discovery.”

They both gave him a startled look.  “How could you possibly know?” Mort said.

“ It’s my business.  What happened that brought you to see a detective?”

He wrung his hands, and somehow managed to look even more distressed.  “I spent yesterday evening at Owen and Jamie’s house -- they’re my brother and sister-in-law, they own the old family land up in Tredannick Wollas and they’re the ones doing the big reno project, going to open some guest cottages.”

“ Did something happen while you were there?” John asked.

“ Yes.  Sort of.”  Mort had gone very pale, and looked to the vicar for assistance.

“ Maybe I'd better tell the story,” Reverend Roundhay said. “You can ask Mort your questions afterwards, only I don't think he'll do very well getting around to the whole story on his own.”

Sherlock leaned back and folded his hands carefully on his lap. “All right, go ahead.”

She made a grim face, and began. “Mort was out at Owen's last night, and their sister Beatrice was there as well. She's a graduate student at Exeter, in town for the weekend, so they thought they'd all get together. They ate dinner, had a good time in the evening, and Mort came home about ten. He headed back over this morning – he was going to be doing the tile in the cottages – but on the way an ambulance passed him and went up to the main house. Apparently the plumber had got there a little earlier, and got worried when no one answered the door, so he went in and found the three of them in the living room, right where Mort had left them last night. Owen and Jamie were half-conscious, but Bea--” The vicar paused for a moment, trying to compose herself. “Bea was dead in her chair, just lying there, with Owen and Jamie not even aware of what had been happening, except they all looked like they'd been terrified out of their minds. They were gibbering too, mumbling to themselves, sort of in and out of consciousness. The plumber was so horrified he almost passed out, but he got outside and called emergency. Mort came round a few minutes later. They took Owen and Jamie to the hospital in Truro, but they left Beatrice there. Then Mort came and got me, and we came to you.”

“ Any signs of violence? Or a break-in?” asked Sherlock.

She shook her head. “Not that we noticed. Mort said it was just like he left them.”

“ Have you called the police?”

“ They're there now,” said Mort, who was looking somewhat ill following the vicar's account. “But I don't think they're going to find anything. It's why I told the reverend we should come to you. She follows the blog, she thought maybe you could help.”

Sherlock leaned forward with interest. “Why do you say they're not going to find anything?”

“ I think ...” Mort paused, wringing his hands together. “I think something supernatural killed them.”

Sherlock looked at John, who raised his eyebrows. “Something supernatural?”

“ Yeah, like, a ghost, or the devil.”

The vicar started, and surreptitiously crossed herself.

“ You don't think something of this world could have been responsible?” Sherlock asked, and Mort frowned at him.

“ I don't appreciate your tone, Mr Holmes. If you're not going to take me seriously--”

“ Sorry, sorry,” Sherlock said, raising his hand in apology. “I'm listening. What makes you think it was something supernatural?”

He sighed. “We had a séance last night. We might have summoned … something.”

Sherlock hadn't been expecting that, and it took him a moment to respond. “You had a séance?”

“ Yeah,” admitted Mort.  “Not like we believe in that sort of stuff, but we thought it would be fun.  It’s a year since Dad died so we figured if we were going to talk to the spirits, that would be a good time.”

Alexa made a confused face and looked to John. "A  _ yahrzeit _ seance? Is that a thing?"

He shook his head. "Not that I've heard of."

Sherlock muffled an amused sound.  “And did you talk to any spirits last night?”

Mort looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Well, kind of. Something happened, at any rate. Maybe it's a normal thing for a séance, I don't know. They're not really my thing.”

“ Nor mine,” said Sherlock. “Can you describe it?”

“I, um.” Mort scratched his chin. “Owen saw something. He was facing so he could see out the front window, so maybe it was somebody outside, but at the time we all thought it was a spirit or something. He suddenly looked terrified, and I turned around and I thought I saw something moving outside, and we all felt a chill even though we had a fire going.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and looked at John to comment. “Sounds frightening,” John offered, unconvincingly. “Do you think there actually was someone outside?”

Mort shrugged and looked even more uncomfortable. “I really don't know. I left about half an hour later, and I didn't see anybody. It really felt like it was a spirit we'd summoned, though.”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “I think this may be the limit of what I can get from here. We'd better get down there before there's nothing left for me to see.” He pushed himself out of his chair, and Alexa scrambled to fetch his crutches.

Mort had begun to look hopeful. “You'll take the case?”

“Are you kidding?” Sherlock grinned at him. “Supernatural deaths! Last time we had those it was brilliant.”

John frowned at him gently. “Timing, dear.”

He waved a hand dismissively. “You came in a car, right?”

Roundhay nodded. “We did. I think we've got room for you three, but it'll be tight.”

“It'll do.” Sherlock gestured with his chin. “Come along, family, we're going on a case!”

They piled into the car, and it was a fifteen-minute drive on winding roads to Owen and Jamie's house, which was north and somewhat inland of where they had been. The place would have been quite quaint indeed, if it wasn't for the coroner's van parked out front. Sherlock got out of the car as quickly as his leg could carry him, and immediately went over to try to talk to the paramedics about what they'd seen so far.

After only a minute or so he came back, apparently not having learned much, and in his haste upset a watering can full of rainwater next to the walk with the end of one crutch. "Oh, damn, sorry," he said, as they all backed up hurriedly, though Sherlock's feet and Mort's got quite wet. "Well, anyway, show me the window where you said your brother saw the devil," he instructed Mort, who led the way through the well-kept garden to the other side of the house.

John and Alexa hung back a little, watching while Sherlock inspected the area outside the window.

"So what do you think it is?" Alexa murmured to him.

"Can't really tell yet. Maybe he knows, but I haven't seen anything much at all."

"You don't think it was really the devil, do you? He keeps talking like it was."

"Why, do you want it to be?"

She smiled. "It would be fun."

John squeezed her shoulder. "Our last demonic attack was actually drugs, so I'd say it's more likely to be that."

"Drugs are boring."

"That's my girl."

Sherlock straightened up with a huff, and started walking back around to the front. "I've seen what I need here. Take me inside."

Mort led them into the house and to the room where it had all happened, and all three of them realized in a moment that Sherlock's usual methods of investigation were not going to work very well for him on this occasion, since his mobility was impaired and he was already starting to get tired from dashing around outside. He hobbled around the room once on his own, then with a frustrated sigh leaned against the stone next to the wood-burning fireplace. "You had a fire going last night?"

"Yeah."

"Was that normal for them?"

"They liked the ambience. Plus their heater's not in great shape so it helped drive off the damp from this room."

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. “Show me where they were sitting,” he instructed.

"Uh, well." He looked around for a moment. "The cops moved things around a little bit."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course they did."

"They left the table mostly the same, though. It looks like they were still playing when this happened."

Sherlock nodded at the cards on the table. "Four hands are on the table. Was there someone else here?"

Mort looked a little confused. "No, just me and the three of them."

Sherlock made a thoughtful sound _.  _ "Okay, so where were all of you sitting?"

Mort spoke haltingly, explaining the evening and the relative positions of everyone the previous night, while Sherlock's eyes darted about the room. Eventually he moved over and sat down in the chair that Owen had occupied, facing the window. "This is where your brother was sat?"

"Yeah, just about."

"So he saw the ... whatever it was, in the window there?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

Sherlock made a dark face as he stared at the window, which gave John a slightly sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He saw that face so rarely, and it never boded well for anyone -- it was the face of a consulting detective who was not finding the pieces he needed to assemble the puzzle, and who would, sooner or later, do something rash out of frustration.

The silence stretched awkwardly for a minute before Mort spoke again. "What are you going to do now, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock got up with an annoyed huff and stomped his crutches on the floor. "I'm going to go back to my cottage and see if there's anything there I can smoke."

"What?" Mort said, startled and confused.

Alexa shot a worried look at John, who had narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms. "You know very well there's no way in hell you're smoking anything."

"Well I've got to have  _ something _ ," he said, slightly desperately, "because this is giving me  _ nothing  _ and I'm so foggy from the damned painkillers I could barely solve a crossword."

"You've lost your bloody mind if you think I'm going to let you so much as look at anything that's not prescribed to you just because you're not as sharp right now as you want to be, Sherlock Holmes."

"Fine!" he spat, and pushed past John roughly on his way out the door. "Just take me back home and make me a cup of coffee or whatever barely helpful thing you're going to do."

John followed after him, trying not to seethe. "Barely helpful?"

Sherlock stopped short and turned his head over his shoulder contemptuously. "Or shall I include caffeine on my  _ list _ ?"

John pushed himself right into Sherlock's personal space and grabbed his collar with one hand so he couldn't back up. "Do not.  _ Ever _ . Joke about that again. Especially in front of Alexa. Or I swear on my own life I will fucking  _ end you. _ "

Sherlock nodded and had the decency to look ashamed.

The drive back to their cottage was silent, and when they arrived Sherlock closed himself in the master bedroom for a sulk. John didn't bother going in to talk to him, though Alexa eventually brought him a cup of coffee.

He reappeared an hour and a half later, with tousled hair and an empty mug. "I want to go to the beach."

They both blinked at him in surprise. "The  _ beach _ ?" Alexa said. "But it's cold."

"It's not that cold. And you brought me all this way, I want to put my toes in."

"The same toes that are wrapped in a cast?" John asked wryly.

"Don't be an arse," he snapped, and John raised his hands in surrender.

"Sorry, sorry," he said, more gently. "I can take you down to the beach. You up for walking?"

"Oh, uh." He looked sadly down at his leg. "To be honest ... no. Maybe it's best if we drove down."

The sun had come out by then, though the air was still cool and with the breeze it was chilly. John decided the wheelchair was the best choice, so they all bundled up, piled into the car, and made the short trip down to the shore.

Sherlock was quiet while John manoeuvred the chair from the car park onto one of the paths. "So what are you thinking?"

"What? About what?"

"About the case."

"I'm really trying  _ not _ to think about the case right now, John."

"Wasn't that the reason you closed yourself up in the bedroom just now, though? To think about it without any of us getting in your way?"

Sherlock looked to be equal parts annoyed and abashed. "To be totally honest, I mostly had a nap. If I'd have been working on it that whole time I'd have torn myself to bits. There's just so little to go on."

"Well there's got to be something, hasn't there?

"There has, but I'm getting suck because I'm certain Mortimer is keeping things from me."

"You can't guess what it is?"

"If he were being even a little forward about  _ anything  _ it would give me something to go on, but he's just clammed up completely. I've got nowhere to start that's any better than anywhere else, and if you can't narrow it down at all it's best to not try. I need more evidence before I can apply myself to anything meaningful."

"I'm sure you have some kind of a theory, though. Even I've got theories."

"You've got hypotheses, there's a difference." He pointed at Alexa. "Pop quiz, what's the difference between a hypothesis and a theory?"

"A theory's backed up by evidence and experimental results, and a good theory allows you to make predictions. A hypothesis is an idea that hasn't necessarily had rigour applied."

John beamed at her. "Doing well in science class, are we?"

She grinned and tucked her chin inside her scarf. "Yeah."

"I mind the correction less when it comes from you. I must be doing something right if my daughter's this smart."

Sherlock smiled warmly up at both of them. "I only wish the evidence for this case was as good to me as the two of you are."

John gave him a brief kiss. "Sure there's not anything we can help with?"

He sighed. "I don't suppose you could time-travel back and be a fly on the wall. What I wouldn't give for  _ one _ eyewitness who isn't a liar or a victim."

"No one else was in the  _ room _ where it happened," Alexa muttered under her breath, and pointed a finger out to sea. "Click-boom."

Sherlock turned and looked at her intently. "What was that?"

She blinked. "What? Oh, that. No, nothing, just you made me think of a song."

"A song about a locked-room mystery?" John asked, incredulous.

"Not that exactly, I mean ... in context it's about the meeting where Alexander Hamilton and Thomas Jefferson agreed to the new US government creating a national bank to take on the states' debts, and in exchange moving the capital to Virginia from New York."

They both stared at her. "There's a  _ song _ about that?" John finally said.

"There's a whole musical about that! Where have you been, Papa? It's been the hottest ticket on Broadway for like two years."

He looked bemused. "You'll have to forgive me for not being American or interested in musical theatre."

"What does that have to do with no one being in the room where it happened?" Sherlock cut in.

Alexa shrugged. "Just that nobody knows how they came to that compromise, there's just hearsay. Aaron Burr was pissy that he wasn't in on it."

"So all they knew is the result and what the parties involved said afterwards."

"Yeah, but everybody was lying about everything to save face.  _ Dark as a tomb where it happens _ ."

He raised his eyebrows, then settled back in the chair, gaze slightly vacant. "Dark as a tomb, indeed -- a murder surrounded by so many lies you can't make out the ones that are true. The question for the rest of us becomes which lies are important, and what was erased by the contamination."

"What?"

John nodded. "He's on the case again."

"No one else  _ was  _ in the room...." He shook his head slightly. "No, this is me stopping. I'll file that away for later. Right now I'm at the beach with my family, right? What do people do at beaches?"

Alexa laughed. "You're the one who wanted to come down here. What did you think we were going to do?"

 

***

 

By the time Sherlock decided he'd had enough of the beach, Alexa's jeans were wet halfway up to her knees and the wheels of the chair were caked with sand, so they piled back into the car, and after she and John got Sherlock back into the cottage she went to change. Sherlock had just got himself comfortably situated in the living room and requested John bring him his laptop when there was a firm knock at the front door. John looked quizzically at Sherlock, then went to answer.

Their visitor was a large, tall man who looked at once agitated and aggressive. He wore a light jacket over jeans -- which gave him an air of being underdressed in a tough kind of way -- and the general impression he gave was that he was someone to be contended with both intellectually and physically, though at the moment he seemed a bit uncertain.

"Hello?" John said.

"Yeah, um," the stranger began, haltingly, "I heard there's a detective staying here? Who's looking into what happened at the Tregennis place?"

"That's me," Sherlock said, waving. "Hello. Come in."

John stepped aside to let the stranger in, and he came into the kitchen but stopped awkwardly.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective. And you are?"

"Dr George Sterndale," the stranger introduced himself. "I'm an old friend of the Tregennis family."

“Doctor?”

“I'm a psychopharmacologist.”

Sherlock perked up. “Go on.”

George furrowed his brow. “It's not important.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Indulge me for a moment.”

George looked irritated. “I just finished a PhD in psychopharmacology at the University of Exeter and I'm about to start a postdoctoral fellowship at the University of Oslo.”

"Oslo, fascinating. And what are you doing here?"

"Just back home for a little bit. I'm really close with the Tregennis family, you know, we grew up together. I was getting ready to head back to Norway, but I got a call from Reverend Roundhay about what happened to Bea and Owen and Jamie. I was halfway to London at that point but I turned back right away."

"You'll have missed your flight by now, haven't you."

"There will be other flights. And I just ... I have to be here right now. With ... with Bea gone, and Owen and Jamie in hospital." He cleared his throat gruffly. "I don't know, I just have to be here. And Roundhay told me about you so I wanted to see if you knew anything yet."

"Not yet, unfortunately."

Sterndale gave a rude snort. "What kind of detective are you? I heard you spent an hour out there this morning, and you didn't even find any clues?"

“It is a grievous error,” Sherlock said, firmly holding eye contact with Dr Sterndale, “to theorize before one has all the facts. At present I am lacking too many regarding the Tregennis deaths to form a likely working hypothesis.”

"That's bullshit," Sterndale growled, and John muscled in front of him.

"If that's all, Dr Sterndale," he said quietly, lifting his chin, "I think you'd better be going."

Sterndale narrowed his eyes at him, then turned for the door. "Waste of my time." He yanked it open and stomped out.

Alexa came back into the living room just as John was closing the door behind their visitor, and Sherlock caught her elbow. “I need you to trail him,” he whispered, and she looked surprised.

“Me?”

He nodded. “I don't think he got a good look at you. Put on your hat over your hair, wait a minute, and he might not realize.”

"Where  _ is  _ your laptop?" John asked.

"Oh, um. I think I might have left it in the bedroom, sorry."

John rolled his eyes and went to look in the other room.

“How long do you need me to follow him?” Alexa murmured.

“Not long. Just enough to see what he does next. If he goes back to his hotel try to wait around a little and see if he goes anywhere after that.”

“Why are we whispering?”

“I'd prefer if Papa didn't know I'm sending you on a mission.”

“Then why do it at all?”

“Because if I do it, I'll be noticed for sure. Plus I sort of … can't. But I have to know what he does next. Can I count on you?”

She bit her lip, then nodded decisively. “Yeah, okay. What's my cover story?”

“You know what I quite fancy?” Sherlock said, at a normal volume. “Some cake to go with tea this afternoon. We're on holiday after all, wouldn't that be nice?”

Alexa's slightly grim expression quickly transformed. “Ooh, that does sound good. I bet the bakery still has some, should I pop out?”

John came back from the master bedroom with Sherlock's laptop. “I'll come with you,” he offered. “I could use a brisk walk.”

“Oh, don't go,” Sherlock said softly, and pulled John close with a finger hooked in his belt loop. “What if I want a little quiet time with you? You did just save me from that Dr Sterndale, I ought to thank you for that.”

John's eyebrows crawled all the way up his forehead, and Alexa made a disgusted noise that was completely genuine. “I'll take my time,” she said, grabbing her coat and hat and pulling a ten pound note out of Sherlock's wallet before dropping it back on the kitchen counter. “Back in an hour.”


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning they woke just after dawn to a frantic knocking on the front door of the cottage, and Alexa answered it to find Reverend Roundhay in a state of panic. "Are you fathers awake, dear?" she gasped. "Oh, it's horrible, it's horrible."

Alexa ushered her in. "God, what happened?"

"It's  _ horrible _ ," she repeated, fluttering her hands. "Are your dads here? We've got to go, they have to see."

"What do we need to see?" John came out into the hall, hastily wiping the remnants of shaving foam off his face.

"It's Mort," Roundhay managed. "Something horrible has happened to him, you've got to come right away."

Alexa and John threw clothes on as fast as they could, then helped Sherlock into a few layers over his pyjamas and they all piled into the Reverend's car.

Roundhay had calmed a little by then, and told them what she could on the short drive. “I went to check on him when he didn't leave at his usual time this morning,” she explained. “Even when he's not working, he goes out early for a paper and brings one back for me. But it got to be a quarter past seven and I hadn't even heard him walking around, so I went up and found him.” She took a shuddering breath. “It was horrible, Mr Holmes, absolutely horrible. His door wasn't locked, which was normal, so I went right in when he didn't answer my knock.”

“Is he still where you found him?” Sherlock pressed.

She nodded grimly. “In his chair, staring out the window like he'd seen the devil himself.”

“Called the police too, have you?”

“Yes, though they'll be a bit probably. I'm sure you'll be able to make something of it.”

"Did you see or hear anything last night?"

"No, nothing." She shook her head grimly. "Mort is a creature of habit. I heard him walking around a little, like he normally does in the evenings, and then I went to bed, which I usually do before him. I didn't hear anything after that."

"Would you have noticed if he had a visitor later at night?"

She seemed very distraught and shook her head. "I don't know, I don't know. I've never noticed if he did in the past."

Mort's rooms turned out to be a tiny two-room flat above the vicar's ground-floor house, accessible by its own front door. “I had to open the windows,” she said nervously as John helped Sherlock up the steep steps, and Alexa followed up behind with the second crutch and his backpack. “I hope that's all right.”

“Why did you have to open the windows?” he asked.

“It was so stuffy, I don't know why. Almost smoky, but I couldn't see any smoke. It gave me a terrible feeling. I panicked, I had to let the air in.”

They finally reached the top of the stairs and went into the apartment, and Sherlock inhaled thoughtfully, trying to get a scent from the air. “I wish you hadn't done that, it may have been a vital clue. They said something similar about the air at Owen's house, didn't they?”

“The plumber said it smelled evil,” Alexa remembered, handing him the other crutch.

“ _ Evil _ ,” he echoed, hobbling towards the bedroom at the front of the house. There was more of an odour there, and the cross-breeze had blown the door partly shut. He pushed it open, crossed the threshold, and stopped abruptly when he saw Mortimer, slumped to the side in an old armchair, his face frozen and contorted in an expression of horror, his glassy eyes wide and unseeing, even his limbs twisted as though he were trying to fight of something unseen. The sight of it gave Sherlock a sick feeling of foreboding, and he turned as quickly as he could and blocked the doorway. “Keep Alexa out,” he hissed to John. “I don't want her to see this.”

John seemed startled, but gave him an affirmative nod and saw to their daughter while Sherlock turned back to the room with the vicar hovering behind him. Even though the small window was open, inside the room the atmosphere was oppressively close with an acrid, smoky quality that irritated his nose and throat. He took in more of it than he'd intended trying to figure out the smell, and after only half a minute he gave in to the reflex to cough.

Roundhay helped him out of the bedroom to where the air was a bit clearer, and he had to lean against the doorjamb to keep his balance while his lungs did what they could to clear out the poison. John hurried over and pulled out a handkerchief for him. “You okay?”

He shook his head, still coughing wetly, though now into the cloth. His eyes had begun to water from it, and Alexa and John gathered around him, doing their best to act like they could help.

Sherlock was still trying to catch his breath when the police finally arrived a few minutes later. Roundhay called down the stairs to have them come up, and then introduced the detective inspector to Sherlock.

“You don't say!” he exclaimed. “This is the famous Mr Holmes?”

“The one from the blog!” she confirmed.

The DI looked slightly uncertain. Sherlock gave him a fake smile and coughed weakly into John's handkerchief again. “You'll pardon me for not shaking your hand.”

“Oh, no it's just … you look older than I expected.” He gestured a little at the shock of silver strands in Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock's mouth dropped open in shock. “I look  _ distinguished, _ ” he wheezed.

“You're wearing a dirty old sweatshirt with too-large track suit bottoms rolled up over your cast, and your hair's unwashed,” John pointed out with a sigh. “You look dishevelled, love.”

“The stubble makes you look older, too,” Alexa added. “You didn't shave yesterday.”

Sherlock gave them all a mighty frown and stuffed the handkerchief in his pocket. “I've been rather busy. Not to mention  _ disabled _ .” He picked up the crutches and scooted closer to the door again. “Ignore my family, they're being clever today apparently. You've come to contaminate the crime scene, have you?”

“Investigate,” the DI corrected.

Sherlock pretended not to hear and stuck his head into the room. “Have we got this aired out yet?”

“It's a bit better,” the DI said, then shook himself. “Mr Holmes, you shouldn't be in here.”

Sherlock shouldered past him. “Shouldn't I.”

“Let him have a look,” Roundhay said. “I asked him to come. He can help.”

“Keep my daughter out in the other room,” Sherlock instructed her. “John, come here, I need your help.”

Alexa pursed her lips in annoyance, and John took the backpack from her and went into the bedroom, where Sherlock was trying to move around but having trouble with how close together the furniture was and with trying not to touch Mort's body.

Sherlock glanced at him and let out a grateful sigh. “Tell me what you see, doctor.”

John leaned in, looking closely at Mort's face. “That expression's bloody unnerving,” he muttered.

Sherlock nodded. “Does lend itself to the demonic death theory.”

John stifled an amused laugh. “Looks like this is consistent with some sort of neurotoxin, could be the same one that got his brother and sister. Probably he died six to twelve hours ago, yesterday evening or in the very early morning.”

Sherlock was looking elsewhere in the room now, and moved towards the fireplace. “Is the grate warm?”

John stepped around him and held the back of his hand in front of it. “No. Does seem like it was lit before, but it's been a few hours at least.”

“Flue open?”

John bent over. “Hard to tell without touching. Might be shut.”

Sherlock took a steadying breath. “I need to look at it more closely. Help me sit on the floor.”

The resulting manoeuvre was very awkward and earned them some strange looks from the police officer in the doorway, but finally Sherlock was sat on the floor with his magnifier inspecting the ashes. “Ask Roundhay if Mort usually had a fire burning,” Sherlock instructed. “There's a radiator out in the other room but it's not clear if this room was heated like that or with this. And if he normally lit a fire, we need to know if he was in the habit of not checking if the flue was fully open and smoking himself.”

John went out to the vicar, and after he'd gone out the door the DI stepped in. “I hope you're not touching anything.”

“I know better than to contaminate a crime scene,” Sherlock shot back. “Just observing, since that's something I've found I can't trust to the so-called professionals.”

He bristled, and John gently jostled his way back in. “No heat in here except the fire,” he explained, “and she said he often lit it even when it was a bit warm like it was last night. Apparently it helps drive off the damp. Never noticed smoke before but she rarely came up.”

Sherlock nodded. “All right. I think I've seen what I can from down here, help me up again.”

The DI scowled as he watched them. “I hope you haven't got your fingerprints on anything.”

“May have done, sorry,” Sherlock said with mock contrition. “The Met have them on file though, for both of us, so we're accounted for.” He took a moment to get balanced, then slowly hobbled back towards the door. “If I were you I'd focus my attention on the window, the fireplace, and that perfectly awful lamp over here. Looks like it probably got bumped, and I was careful not to touch it. The reverend opened the window this morning, but I'd see how well it latches. If we're thinking foul play there may be signs that somebody went in or out by that method, there's a trellis outside if I'm not mistaken.”

“Do you have a theory?” the vicar asked, wringing her hands.

“It's a grievous error to theorize before one has all the facts,” Alexa recited, and Sherlock gave her a proud smile.

“Precisely. Let's go downstairs, Reverend, I have to look around on the ground floor a bit.” He got to the top of the stairs, and gave them an uncertain look.

Alexa appeared at his shoulder. “Go down on your bum.”

He turned towards her with a shocked look. “I beg your pardon.”

She shrugged. “Maybe it's not dignified, but you won't fall.”

“I'll go put the kettle on,” Roundhay offered, slipping past and quickly descending.

They made it downstairs only a couple of minutes later, and Sherlock made a quick circuit of the house under his own power, moving fast enough that John and Alexa simply stood on the walk and watched. He was clearly on to something, John was relieved to see, and Alexa seemed to pick up on his change of mood as well.

When he'd finished seeing what he needed to see, he refused the vicar's offer of tea, saying that he was on to something and needed to get back to the cottage to synthesize everything. So they got back in the car, and Roundhay returned them to their cottage, though she seemed reluctant to see them go.

"You'll tell me, won't you?" she said, as John was helping Sherlock out of the back seat. "What you work out?"

"Of course, of course," Sherlock said in his reassuring voice, though it was perhaps less effective than usual since he was in a bit of pain and short of breath. "I'm certain you'll know what I find out."

"That's not what I--"

But he shut the car door. "Thank you, Vicar, I'll be in touch."


	4. Chapter 4

If John and Alexa had expected some kind of flurry of activity when they got back, they were sorely disappointed. Sherlock declared immediately that he needed to go to his mind palace, and closed himself into the master bedroom, leaving John and Alexa wondering what there was for them to do.

Alexa sighed. "I'm hungry."

"Me, too," John realized. "We didn't have breakfast, did we?"

"Should we leave him alone for a bit? Go get pastry or whatever?"

John looked towards the closed door. "I suppose so. He'll be a while, and we can bring something back for him."

Alexa pulled her hat back on. "Let's go, then, I'm starving."

 

***

 

Sherlock knew he was alone when he came back to himself in the cottage -- probably John and Alexa had gone for food, which meant he had a bit of time to do the practical work he needed to finish his theory.

Sherlock hopped across the room to his backpack and retrieved his notebook and the little packet of folded paper containing two largeish, dark red pills he'd swiftly and surreptitiously confiscated during his inspection of Mort's flat. He hobbled back over to his easy chair next to the wood stove, then unwrapped them. One pill had become slightly crushed, so he dipped a fingertip into the reddish powder and waved it carefully under his nose -- no odour, as predicted. Carefully he touched it to the tip of his tongue, then, emboldened, ran his finger around inside his mouth. It fizzed a tiny bit when it got moistened, and the flavour was bitter and acidic, though all of those characteristics were all but masked by the powerful metallic sweetness, probably aspartame or sucralose.

He picked up another crumb with his damp finger and let it dissolve between his lip and gums -- the sensation was unremarkable except for a little bit of fizzing again. He opened up the notebook to a fresh page and started writing, and by the time he was done taking down his observations he was convinced that taking the drug orally would not have caused the effects seen in the Tregennis siblings, since with this dose he wasn't experiencing anything at all, other than an unpleasant taste.

He turned the page, and titled the next one  _ Volatility. _ He smashed the rest of the broken pill into a fine powder with the back of his thumbnail, and folded the whole one back inside its little bit of paper and stowed it in his pocket again.

The door opened suddenly, and John came back inside. Sherlock stared for a moment. "Where's Alexa?"

"Having coffee," John explained, setting a paper bag on the counter. "I think she really just wanted some time to herself, though, she's been pretty cooped up with us. It's pretty windy and cold out there so I had an excuse to come back without letting on that I knew, let her have some privacy."

"Good, then you're just in time to help me with an experiment."

John looked equal parts eager and wary. "What kind of experiment?"

"Chemical volatility."

John dropped his jacket on a kitchen chair and came into the sitting room. "Okay, are you going to tell me more?"

"Yes, but after we have results to confirm my hypothesis."

John sat down, but he looked uncertain. "This isn't poison, is it?"

Sherlock gave him a meaningful look, and John set his jaw. "Well, good thing I'm here. Let's do it."

He poured the powder onto the hot metal surface of the wood stove, and they both leaned in to watch. Fine white smoke began to rise off it after a few seconds, and after another few it suddenly became darker and thicker. John stood up in alarm, and Sherlock took a startled breath, inadvertently drawing in some of the noxious fumes. His eyes burned and he started to cough.

"Come on," John ordered, trying not to choke on it himself as the miasma rapidly spread into the room. "Outside! Now!"

Sherlock by that point had got enough of it in his system that he was starting to panic, and he tried to recoil farther back in his chair, all while still completely at the mercy of his coughing reflex. John hauled him upright and through a feat of adrenalin managed to throw both of them out the front door and onto the damp grass.

They lay there for a long minute, Sherlock struggling to regain his breath from the coughing fit and wincing in pain every time it jostled his leg, and John watching helplessly, holding his hand as tightly as he could. Finally Sherlock was breathing regularly again, and he rolled onto his back, exhausted and still trembling.

"That was fucking stupid," John sighed.

Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes. "We need to open the windows," he wheezed. "Air that out before Alexa gets back."

John sat up and rubbed his hand over his eyes. "God, that was so stupid. So  _ fucking  _ stupid. What if that had actually killed us, like it did Bea and Mort?"

"I had to know," he said weakly, and John turned on him in anger.

"I really though all of this was behind you. All this ..." He gestured roughly. "Risking your life shit. To prove you're fucking  _ clever _ ."

"It's not about me," he whispered. "It's the work."

"You and your goddamn  _ work! _ " He got up and flung the front door of the cottage open, waving a little to try to disperse the fumes. "I just thought we were past this sort of shit, Sherlock! I thought things were different now we're a family, now that we've got Alexa!"

The sun came out suddenly, and John turned in time to see Sherlock struggling to sit up. Out in the garden his illness was much more apparent than it had been in the cottage. He was still so thin, his hair flat and greasy and a contrast against the paleness of his skin, and the difficulty he had in gaining a sitting position with the huge cast on his leg was heartbreaking.

John stared for a moment, then walked over to him slowly.

"Going to shout at me some more," Sherlock mumbled, looking at his hands.

"Sorry," he said quietly. "I've been forgetting that you're having a hard time."

He scoffed mirthlessly. "You could say that again."

"I shouldn't have shouted." John sat beside him on the grass. "I was there too, I did actually agree to be a part of this."

"I'm so sorry I didn't tell you," Sherlock said suddenly, looking up with tears in his eyes. "I knew there was a danger, but I had to find out, and I just thought that doing it like this would make me feel  _ something _ , and I'm so sorry I had to bring you into it, I shouldn't have endangered you--"

John cut him off with a rough kiss. "Just shut up," he murmured. "You're a reckless idiot and I love you more than I can say. You'll always do stupid shit and I'll always be right beside you."

Sherlock swallowed a little sob, then took a few breaths to compose himself. "I do love you," he said finally. "With my whole heart. I don't think I say that enough."

John gave him a little smile. "To be fair, I don't think I do, either."

"Good, well, as long as we're clear." He pressed another kiss to John's lips, and this one lingered a bit longer before they pulled away.

"I'll go open up the windows," John said. "You stay here."

"Don't really have a choice. I don't think I can stand up by myself."

"As soon as it's okay inside we can go back in."

It didn't take long for the fumes to clear out to John's liking, and then he helped Sherlock back inside and sat him down at the kitchen table. "Experiment's over now, is it?"

"Yes, definitely. I got what I needed."

John sat down across the corner from him and gave him a stern look. "In that case, mind sharing the reason we just almost got poisoned while on holiday in Cornwall?"

"For the case, obviously."

"The Tregennis case?"

"Yes. This is what we just smoked." Sherlock reached into his pocket and produced the folded piece of paper with the remaining pill in it. “Found it in Mort's room.”

John unfolded the paper, and dropped it on the table in surprise. “Holy shit.”

“You recognize it?”

“Not specifically, but I can tell a club drug when I see it.”

“This one's fairly new. Called  _ devil's foot _ .”

“I can see why.” John leaned down to look at it more closely. “I'm guessing the red colour is added. Is it manufactured in the cloven-hoof shape or does it split like that on its own?”

“Not sure, though I suspect the latter. Right now production is still small-batch and low tech.”

“Where's it from?”

“Norway, though it's gaining ground in Sweden and Finland as well.”

“Taken orally, I expect.”

Sherlock nodded. “Dissolved in the mouth. It's supposed to be slightly effervescent, and then you get a long-lasting high and vivid hallucinations. Fairly high incidence of paranoia and bad trips, though.”

“Effect of the drug, or of the fillers?”

“Don't know yet. It's the subject of Dr Sterndale's research.”

John's eyes widened. "The same Dr Sterndale who came by yesterday."

"The very same, the one who's an old friend of the Tregennis family and happened to be in town."

“I guess that explains how Mort got his hands on a Scandinavian club drug, Sterndale must have brought it with him for some reason." He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "And you stole this from his flat?"

"Only two, there were two more I left there for the police to find."

"And then you smoked us with it, knowing it was probably a neurotoxin."

"It's not like you said  _ no _ when I said it was probably poison."

"You didn't say anything when I asked."

"Come on, you don't get to act like you don't know what that means."

"Yes, all right, we've already been over that," he said gruffly.

"Anyway, there's no research available about what happens when it's heated. The only way to confirm was through experiment."

"And what does happen when it's heated? It turns poison?"

"To put it simply, yes. It mean it's already essentially poison, it's a club drug."

"Well, yes, to be obvious about it."

Sherlock smirked at him approvingly. "But in the presence of high heat it vapourises and becomes much more acutely toxic. I'd read about people dying immediately when they tried adding it to other smokeables, but those were hardly clinical trials so there's some degree of exaggeration or uncertainty to be expected. But our experience does seem to show that smoking it increases that hallucinogenic effect if it's at a low enough dose not to be fatal."

"In any case, that's one hell of an unfortunate side effect."

"Quite. Useful for murder, though."

John suppressed a giggle. "Yeah."

A fond smile bloomed across Sherlock's face. "I've done what I needed here, now, and I'm getting a little hungry. Is that food you brought?"

John looked over at the bag on the counter, as though he'd forgotten it was there. "Oh, yeah. Breakfast, since you haven't had any yet."

"Make me some coffee, too?"

John gave him a melodramatic sigh. "Anything for you, love."


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock woke in the predawn twilight the next day, and set out as quietly as he could, breathing a sigh of relief when the cottage door closed behind him without his movements having roused either his husband or his daughter. If he was lucky he had a couple of hours before either of them was awake, and if he was  _ very _ lucky he would be back by then.

He limped the quarter mile down the road and let himself into the Unicorn, where a couple of the guests were just starting their breakfast. George Sterndale was among them, and turned when Sherlock came in; his expression became immediately defensive.

"Relax, George," Sherlock said gently, hobbling over and then dropping heavily into the seat across from him. "I just wanted to pay you a visit before you left."

"What the hell do you want from me?"

"Oh, nothing, no. I've got everything I need, I just wanted to talk to you."

"About what? Mort and Bea? Because I really don't want to talk about them."

"I think we have to." Sherlock folded his hands and leaned in, forearms on the edge of the table. "I know what happened."

"No you don't."

"Oh, but I do." He reached into his pocket, pulled out the little packet of paper, and shook the last red pill out onto the table.

George paled. "What the hell is that."

"You know exactly what it is."

"Where did you get it?"

"Found it in Mort's flat. Well, I confiscated another one too, but that one was sacrificed to science, along with a little bit of my lung capacity."

George looked shocked. "You didn't  _ burn it _ ?"

Sherlock nodded. "Fascinating reaction."

"You could have died."

He shrugged. "Story of my life. It's really quite a good story, though I do consider myself lucky that I wasn't added to the body count this time. Would have made quite a headline to add to this Cornish Horror saga."

"You're mad."

"Perhaps." Sherlock allowed himself a little smile and leaned forward again. "Why did you kill Mortimer Tregennis?"

George started turning red. "I didn't."

"That wasn't my question," Sherlock said firmly. "I followed you the other day, after you left my cottage."

George scoffed. "No you didn't."

"Well, okay, fine, but I had you followed."

"Not by that partner of yours, I'd have noticed him."

"No, not by John, by Alexa. My daughter."

George looked like he was about to protest again, but then realization dawned. "That tall girl with the hat was your daughter?"

"She's good, isn't she?"

"I thought I was just being paranoid. Roundhay said you two had your girl with you but I thought she'd be younger. How old are you anyway, father to a teenager?"

"That doesn't matter," Sherlock said, trying not to blush.

"Anyway I never thought you'd have her follow me."

"I was counting on that. But she did follow you, and took excellent notes. First you went to Roundhay's, but you didn't knock on her door or Mort's, and they didn't seem to notice you were there. Alexa said you looked like you were trying to psych yourself up to something, but you left after five minutes and hiked back here, where you went upstairs and apparently stayed. She waited around for fifteen minutes but didn't see you, so she came back to me."

George crossed his arms and gave an indignant snort. "That doesn't prove anything."

"No, but footprints do."

George looked slightly nervous at that. "Footprints?"

"The ground was dry at Roundhay's house that morning, but it rained in the afternoon. When I was there the next day I saw sharp footprints in the garden mud under Mort's front window that match those Doc Martens you're wearing."

"Lots of people wear Doc Martens."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Yes, but not many of them leave quite the impressive footprint that you do."

"Maybe I just went for a walk."

"There was also a bit of the garish decorative gravel that they've got in the planters out front, and I bet I'd find a little in your jacket pocket if I looked. Trajectory indicated it had been tossed at the window, which means you went to Mort's after Roundhay had gone to sleep, woke him up by throwing gravel at the window that you'd brought from here, and then went in for a bit."

"I didn't go in."

"You did, I saw your footprints on the stairs."

"You couldn't have!"

"Not from standing height, no, they were quite faint and only on the bottom four. But I knew what to look for and I got a very close look at them." He rapped on his cast. "Flat wasn't exactly accessible, but that turned out to be a good thing."

George was starting to look resigned. "So what did I do then?"

"Argued with Mort, though quietly enough not to wake the vicar, then you nicked a couple of the devil's foot pills and smashed them up, like I did. On your way out you tossed it into the embers of the fire, and by the time Mort realized it was too late."

George nodded solemnly. "I suppose you know why I did it, too."

"I've got most of it. You figured out the incident at Owen's before I did -- no one else was in the room where it happened. No one but the three victims and Mort. It could only have been him." He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "I don't understand the  _ motive  _ though. Why would Mort drug his siblings? And why would you take revenge like that?"

George sighed. "As for Mort, I'm sure you won't be surprised to hear it came down to money."

"I'm not surprised, but do go on."

"Mort was bitter that Owen had inherited the property when their father died last year, and that Bea had got quite a bit of money in the will as well -- she was always the favourite, the only girl, and their father  _ doted  _ on her, gave her everything she wanted, but he was very protective. Almost controlling. So when he died, she took her money and ... well she went a little mad, for a bit. Clubbing, extravagant shopping, quit her job, you know."

"Spent most of it?"

"Not most, she's got about half left. She got over the rebellious phase quickly enough, but not before she'd pissed off her brothers. Owen forgave her, but Mort's always been one to hold a grudge."

"You know an awful lot about the Tregennis family's dirty laundry. Sure you're just an old friend?"

George pursed his lips and his face grew dark. "No."

"You and Bea?"

"Yes."

"Did Mort and Owen know?"

"I don't think Owen did, unless someone told him. But Mort was in Exeter recently to see Bea and it was kind of ... inescapable."

"Was that when Mort got the drug from you?"

He shook his head firmly. "It wasn't from me, you think I keep that shit around? But Bea was quite interested in my work, she wouldn't stop talking about it.  Probably gave him the idea and he went and got some himself." He sighed. "She was going to come to Oslo with me, too, and she was so excited about it. Mort was already upset about us being together, and I think that pissed him off even more."

"Why? Brotherly protectiveness? Sour grapes over the money thing, that she could run off and move abroad?"

"Who knows, he was always kind of weird. Too intense, you know? Overreacted a lot. But anyway seeing us, he got ideas, and it's not hard to get recreational drugs if you know where to look."

"True."

"I only wonder if he'd actually  _ planned  _ to kill them, or just ... I don't know, give them a scare."

"Hard to know. And he's not around to tell us any more."

George scowled at the table. "No, he's not."

Sherlock looked at his hands for a minute. "For what it's worth, I'm very sorry for your loss."

George seemed surprised by that. "Thanks. I wasn't ... I'm not really expecting sympathy at this point."

Sherlock looked up at him with a soft expression. "You're hardly the only man who's ever loved."

“I mean …” George shrugged. “I suppose. You’ve got a family, after all. I suppose you probably do understand me.”

Sherlock nodded solemnly. “I do. If something like this happened to John or Alexa, I …” He paused, searching, and finally sighed. “I don’t know what I’d do. Things too dark for breakfast.”

George gave him a cautious look. “I guess you’ll be turning me over to the police, then. Crime of passion, or whatever shit they call it. Be in all the papers.”

Sherlock gave him a curious look. "And yet, you're still here. You could have left, could have run."

"I know. I know, but I just ... I couldn't. It's like I don't want to admit that this all really happened."

"That Bea is gone? That you killed Mort?"

"Mort deserved what he got, but --" George hid his eyes behind his hand and suppressed a shudder. "God, Bea didn't do anything. She didn't deserve this, she--" He choked back a sob. "I almost want to go to prison. I should have known Mort would do something idiotic, I should have  _ stopped _ him."

"You really loved her, didn't you?"

"My whole life," he whispered. "I've been trying not to think about it, but with her gone, I ... I don't know. I don't know what to do. I don't know what I  _ can _ do." He sighed and tried to compose himself. "Anyway, the whole, you know. Calling the cops. Might as well get on with that."

Sherlock made an uncertain face and leaned back in his chair. “I could, but … well, what would they do? You murdered Mort, of course. But he was a murderer as well, and one with a much less noble cause. Case like this, it almost seems too much of a bother to involve a jury at all.”

George looked taken aback. “You’re serious?”

“Consider it a gift.” Sherlock gave him a sad smile. “From a man who has his true love, to one who doesn’t. At least you can have your freedom.”

George was still frozen in surprise. “You're really not going to tell anyone?”

Sherlock shrugged in a noncommittal way. “Well, I'll tell John, of course. He knows everything, and I trust him with my life.”

"He won't blog it?"

"He'll leave out any incriminating bits. Won't be the first time I have a case that's officially unsolved."

“What about your girl?”

Grey-green eyes fixed on him in challenge. “Do you trust her?”

George laughed. “How old is she, fifteen?”

“Sixteen.”

“She's not just a little girl, is she?”

“She's been through more than most.”

George relaxed a little. “I think you trust her, and if you do then so do I.”

“Then we're in agreement.” Sherlock picked up his crutches from where they were leaning on the wall, and George stood up.

“Need a hand?”

“I'm fine, thanks.” Sherlock struggled to his best approximation of standing, and leaned on the crutches. “Go back to your work, Dr Sterndale. Go to Norway, go even farther if you want to, and stay out of trouble.”

“I'll do my best.”

Sherlock cleared his throat, which turned into a few moments of deep coughing. When he looked up again, George was watching with a concerned expression.

“You sure you're okay?”

“Yeah, fine.” He gave another cough. “Only pneumonia. No big deal. I'm on antibiotics.”

“Jesus, pneumonia? And you were out in this?”

Sherlock looked out the window. “It's not that bad.”

“At least let me walk you back to your cottage. They must be worried about you.”

Sherlock couldn't think of a way to refuse, so George put on his coat and they went out into the early morning gloom. The walk seemed longer with the mist in the air, and they were silent except for the gentle creaking of metal on metal and Sherlock's mildly laboured breathing.

As they approached the cottage Sherlock's crutches made a distinctive noise on the gravel, and moments later Alexa appeared in the doorway.

“Daddy! Oh my god!” She darted down the driveway and only barely avoided knocking him over with the force of her hug. “Where have you  _ been _ ? Papa's been going out of his mind.”

“Sherlock?!” John's shout echoed through the fog, and a few moments later he came into view, panting, then threw his arms around both Sherlock and Alexa. “Jesus, where the fuck were you?”

“I had to talk to Dr Sterndale,” Sherlock said softly, raising a hand to hold onto his shoulder. “I'm sorry I didn't tell you where I was going, but you'd have insisted on coming and I was afraid if it was anyone else but me he might bolt.”

“Bolt? Why would he bolt?”

“Let's get inside and I'll tell you.” He looked around and noticed that Sterndale had disappeared in the commotion. “All top-secret of course. I'm certain I can trust you both.”

They went in, and John worked out the remainder of his nervous energy by making breakfast with a bit more clattering than usual. Sherlock told the tale over tea and toast, and when he had finished the heavy clouds were beginning to drizzle with a gentle pattering on the windows and the metal chimney of the wood stove.

John leaned back in his chair and gazed out the window. “Hell of a day to wrap up a double murder.”

“Are you really not going to tell the police what really happened?” Alexa asked.

Sherlock shrugged. “They found the drug in Mort's room, I'm sure, and the autopsy may reveal it in his blood, if they're not complete morons. The obvious conclusion is that it was suicide, perhaps motivated by remorse over accidentally killing his sister. They won't have reason to investigate further, especially if I tell them I arrived at the same conclusion.”

“Accidentally?” John probed.

“Sure. Devil's Foot is a club drug, after all, and they were having a séance. They went looking for something psychoactive and got more than they bargained for. No one will question why they tried smoking something normally taken orally, happens all the time.”

John looked grim. “I wonder whether Owen and Jamie will pull through. There's been so little research on this drug so far.”

Alexa shivered a little and gripped her mug. “Are your cases always so dark?”

Sherlock rested his hand on her shoulder and gave it a comforting squeeze. “Not always. It does rather come with the territory, though.”

“Well, anyway, what shall we do today?” she asked with forced brightness. “It looks like our walk is counter-indicated, and the weather app says it's supposed to be like this all day.”

“Did you not bring your knitting?” he teased, and scratched absently at his thigh around the top of his cast. “I seem to recall the bag I carried was completely full of yarn.”

“Come on, I only brought two projects; that's hardly any for a week on holiday. But I more meant you and Papa; I don't mind being cooped up inside for a day.”

“Am I not capable of being cooped up?” he said, mock-insulted.

“No,” John deadpanned, and Sherlock flashed him a grin.

“Don't worry, I've collected a lot of data for my geological and herbological study and I haven't had a chance to process any of it yet. So long as one of you can crawl on the floor to plug in my laptop charger, I can make tables and charts for a couple of hours at least.”

John rolled his eyes. "And once you've made your vital contribution to the literature?"

He shrugged. "I'm sure we'll figure something out."

"For as much as you whinge about being bored," Alexa said, "it does seem to happen rather rarely."


End file.
